


New Heaven, New Earth

by Weconqueratdawn



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams, Illustrated, M/M, Memory Palace, Murder Husbands, Original Character(s), Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 03:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13091895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weconqueratdawn/pseuds/Weconqueratdawn
Summary: Two years on from the bluff, Hannibal and Will have settled in Costa Rica when Will is troubled by a strange new kind of dream.In Will's dreams, feathers whisper. They drag across his cheek; droop scuffing along the dusty floor.His feet are bare, dirty. Under them the earth moves; slowly shifting, never still. It makes him dizzy. He longs to sit down, sink to the floor. There is nothing to stop him, he realises, so he does.Hunched on the ground, the ache in his shoulders does not lessen. It burns and tears, a heavy dead weight tugs upon them. A pair of wings, black as night. Maybe he has always had them and never noticed.They are little used; his body has not learnt their secrets. The first time he stretches them wide, he feels joy.





	New Heaven, New Earth

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thank to you to the extremely lovely people behind the [Radiance Anthology](https://radiance-anthology.tumblr.com/) for taking on such a huge project and carrying it off so well. Thanks to them, I (and many others) now have a story in print <3
> 
> Thank you also to [wraithsonwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithsonwings/pseuds/wraithsonwings) for her wonderful support and beta work, and also to my long-suffering gf for the same :)
> 
> FINALLY, thanks to [theseavoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeaVoices/pseuds/TheSeaVoices) who did some truly spectacular artwork to accompany this fic - it is glorious :D

In Will's dreams, feathers whisper. They drag across his cheek; droop scuffing along the dusty floor.

His feet are bare, dirty. Under them the earth moves; slowly shifting, never still. It makes him dizzy. He longs to sit down, sink to the floor. There is nothing to stop him, he realises, so he does.

Hunched on the ground, the ache in his shoulders does not lessen. It burns and tears, a heavy dead weight tugs upon them. A pair of wings, black as night. Maybe he has always had them and never noticed. 

They are little used; his body has not learnt their secrets. The first time he stretches them wide, he feels joy.

*

The room is unremarkable; ordinary, even. Not large or small, grand or confined. In contrast to the house’s brightly stuccoed exterior, its walls are whitewashed and plain. The floor is tile - better to keep both temperature and cockroaches down. There are two doors. One leads back into the house, into a corridor, down which is the bathroom. The other doubles as a window and opens onto the terrace.

Once again, Will has chosen to sleep on the first floor. It’s cooler than upstairs and he wants an early warning, should anything happen.

The shutters are closed but the light seeps in anyway, through the cracks. It casts over the room in stripes, across his face. The bright lines marching along his legs are something to focus on, while he struggles fully awake. He shifts a knee and watches how the light takes on new shapes to fit his movement, simply because he wills it. 

He slept on top of the sheets; the room is hot, nearly stifling. Humidity is a constant subdued presence, insistent as touch. It would be fresher outside, there might be a breeze sent up by the sea.

Will rises, and pulls back the shutters. Already the air is sweeter, more enticing. The fragrance of living, growing things swells into the room. In this landscape, they take up space; confidently brash and abundant.

Outside, at the far end of the terrace, Hannibal is already at breakfast. He wears crisp white linen, and a Panama hat sits beside the silver coffeepot. Like the chairs, the table is wrought iron, French in style. A heavy tablecloth has been laid; it obscures Will’s view but his posture suggests he sits with crossed legs. His fork glints with brilliant light as he eats. 

His smile, when Will joins him, is like the sun; too bright, burning. Knowing.

Under its glare, Will is at home.

*

Over breakfast, they speak of everyday affairs. The day ahead, their plans. Simple words, said aloud just to hear the other reply. It is still a luxury to have so much time for conversation. Their words have never come so cheaply.

Around them, the garden buzzes. Great palm leaves sway like sails, and insects cloud underneath their shade. At their feet, a fat iridescent beetle rolls smoothly onwards like a shiny pebble. 

There are many birds, too - vivid, unmusical, but inquisitive. Will watches them daily, their boldness fascinating. They do not lack things to eat but he has hung feeders anyway. He can’t name a single one. One day he will buy a book and begin to learn them.

This morning, after breakfast has finished and Hannibal has left for the market, he strolls down the steps and over the lawn. Thoughtfully de-husking sunflower seeds, two parakeets watch him approach. When he gets too close, they scatter in alarm, flashing their bright red underwings. The feeders clatter together behind them.

Underneath, among the husks and droppings, is a single black feather. Will picks it up, and lets it sit undisturbed in his palm. It has the same glossy dark sheen as a raven’s. But there are no crows of any kind south of Mexico.

He takes it with him, when he goes back inside.

*

“I dream I have wings,” Will says, later.

They are sitting by the windows in the long living room, overlooking the forest canopy as it retreats down the hill towards the bay. Thick clouds have gathered and now it is raining mistily. Through the haze, the sky is pearly and luminous.

Hannibal says nothing, just inclines his head to show he is listening.

“They’re black, like raven’s wings.” Will exhales. Now he’s started, he’s not sure why he did. The gauzy drapes billow between their chairs, then settle again. “They’ve always belonged to me but I haven’t learned how to use them. I doubt I need you to interpret that.”

“What happens, in your dream?” asks Hannibal.

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “They are heavy, so I sit on the ground. My shoulders ache under the strain. That’s all.”

“But it bothers you,” Hannibal says. “You cannot decide if they are a gift or a burden.”

“I know which side you would argue for.”

Hannibal recrosses his legs and smiles. “I think you no longer care which. You just want to know which is true.”

*

Surrounding the house are formal gardens. There are terraced lawns, adorned with flowering plants and trees, stocked with fruits and vegetables. Beyond those lies private land, also belonging to the house. It is steep and uncultivated, given over to jungle; vegetation so thick it is a wall between them and the rest of the world. The narrow track which winds perilously back down the hill is only way through by car. At the bottom are tall electric gates - just another trapping of the paranoid rich.

On the other side of the house, facing the sea, is another way off the property. Obviously little used before their arrival, Will had found it on one of their first days here. A path leading down to the bay - steep, narrow stairs cut into the earth, and at the bottom a rickety gate, hidden in a grove of trees. Will has since shored up the steps, to keep them from slipping away in the rains, and Hannibal has paid for security fencing and a new gate.

Despite their improvements the path is still narrow and dark, even on a sunny day like today. It trickles uncertainly through the trees, which crowd ever closer until they must walk in single file. The undergrowth has fought back since it was cleared and though the path’s exit is less secret now, soon it will be tangled with greenery again.

Hannibal shuts the gate behind them and they join the short track which will take them to the bay and the little fishing village of Cabuyal. They stop at the seafront, where the road crumbles into sand. The tide is out, and the breeze smells of seaweed which has been baking all morning in the sun. Hannibal wrinkles his nose a little; Will smiles to himself, and they move on.

There is a café further along, one Will sometimes visits when out alone. A couple of gnarled old men sit outside on white plastic chairs, shaded by dusty pink Coca Cola parasols. Perhaps they are waiting for the tide, which rises quickly, or perhaps they are simply enjoying each other’s silence. As they walk by, one of them nudges the other to point at something far in the distance, and their conversation bubbles up from the deep well of familiarity it had sunk into.

The hamlet has not been prosperous enough to cut its way back into the forest and the houses press tightly to the shoreline. They take a street leading inland, which ends abruptly. Beyond the last building, its rough surface dissolves into packed earth and then scrub. They don’t walk as far as that; the first turning is all they need. It takes them to a modest house with peeling pastel yellow paint and a tiled roof; perfect tourist picturesque.

They should be taking photos, Will thinks. Doing what the villagers expect of them, instead of becoming involved; making themselves memorable.

It’s too late for regrets. He knocks on the door, and they are admitted into its hushed interior.

*

The floor is gritty and cool under Will’s soles. Stiff fronds of silk fringe the edges of his vision, glossy and dark. He breathes deeply in and then out again, feels his wings gently rise and fall with the movement of his chest. For the first time he wonders if he could fly.

Instead of trying, he folds them around himself, a cocoon of luscious black feathers. He touches their tips gently, to see if he can feel any sensation. He can’t, so he plunges his hand deeper, reaching over his head and down his back. There, between his fingers, the quills are fragile and warm. Heated with the same blood which runs through his veins.

Below their soft downy depths, his skin pricks. Punctured; stretched tender around each erupting feather. It’s reminiscent of scar tissue.

*

Will wakes early to rain, beating down with a roar of white noise. It won't be for long - it is too early in the season for the downpours which seem to last for weeks.

He finds Hannibal in the kitchen. All the doors to the terrace are flung open, allowing cooler air and a few stray flies entry. The drumming of rain is thunderous. Will stands at a window and watches the angry towering clouds flash lightning over the sea, far away. The storm will blow itself out there. It is only to be expected in the tropics where mountains meet the ocean.

Today there is no white tablecloth on the terrace. They eat at the large kitchen table, the one Hannibal uses for rolling out dough. Will helps himself to coffee while Hannibal serves; rice and beans, chorizo and eggs. A pile of drawings and a sketchbook sit at the other end of the table. Hannibal has been busy this morning.

Will points at them with his fork. “I suppose it’s not a good day for a swim.”

“Perhaps later,” Hannibal replies. “This afternoon, I thought we could take a drive. Over to Liberia - there is a church I would like to see, and a couple of stores.”

“Fine with me,” Will says. “This weather is a recipe for restlessness. And neither of us should be allowed to grow restless.”

Hannibal smiles over his coffee cup. “What is between us might escape, out into the wild. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“This isn’t Troy,” Will reminds him. “And in any case, I would rather not invoke the divine intervention of Interpol.” He stabs at a fat piece of chorizo, and then amends, “Any more than we already have.”

*

From outside, the church looks much like any other in the region. White painted, long and low, with a pitched roof like a barn. They step inside straight from the street, through the open half of an arched door.

The storm had passed by noon, and the heat built rapidly in its wake. The sky was cloudless, a blue so deep and clear it was like coloured glass. Hannibal had driven them, along the winding mountain roads. Will had reclined in the passenger seat and closed his eyes; with the top down, he could nearly believe he was flying.

Naturally, Hannibal’s shopping had been for clothing and food. Will had been content to wait, passive. It gave him space to sink into the shadows, and watch the lives being lived around them. In the boutiques used to American tourists, that wasn’t always possible. While Hannibal shopped, the store owners would fuss over him, insisting he sit, bringing him sweetened coffee or refresco. Somehow, he would end up looking like an indulged lover, which Hannibal purposefully made worse by presenting him with gifts.

At home, Will had built quite a collection of these. Cufflinks, a Fedora, several ties, a shirt. He made a point of wearing one, whenever Hannibal had guests for dinner. It always caused a minute flicker of Hannibal’s composure, invisible to everyone except Will.

This time, Hannibal has only one bag, small and light, containing a single truffle from an Italian delicatessen. Will hovers close to the church door, and watches Hannibal set about his last errand of the day. There is little to look at - the interior is plain and uncluttered, with rich warm wood and more white paint.

Hannibal leads him into a side chapel, close to the main altar. In it, framed with carved wood, is a bronze statue of unexpected size. The angel towers over them, great wings outspread, a sword in one hand. One foot rests upon the prone form of a horned beast.

“So this is why you wanted to come here.” Will moves closer to read the inscription at its base. “San Miguel Arcangel. Kicked Satan out of heaven.”

“Triumphed over the Dragon,” Hannibal replies, just behind him.

“You’re laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?” Will frowns, taking in the righteous winged fury of St Michael. “Not even you can accuse me of being angelic.”

“I know how I see you,” Hannibal says “But I am interested in how you see yourself.”

Will studies the twisted rage of the beast. He too has wings, crumpled beneath him as he’s pierced by the angel’s sword. “More than two years have passed since then. It feels like a long time ago.”

“It is the moment on which our entire present is built,” Hannibal says. “A fixed point in time - somewhere, it is always happening, or just about to happen.”

*

In Hannibal’s sketchbook, that moment happens repeatedly. After dinner, Will sits and watches him draw. His fingers are black with charcoal dust, there are smudges as far up as his wrist. It seems so unlike him; messy and imprecise. For their joint memories, he has discarded his scalpel-sharpened pencil in frustration. Its renderings were accurate, but lifeless. Hannibal seeks to re-live his remembrances, now, not just to archive them.

He draws the clifftop, stark in the moonlight; the death of the Dragon; studies of Will, and of his various injuries and scars. Their house in Cuba, and the giant ceiba tree which stood in the garden. The disembowelled man Hannibal had come home to find in its kitchen.

The movement of his hands is hypnotic. From across the room Will cannot make out the subject, but knows what it must be.

“You think this is because of Cuba,” Will says.

Hannibal does not look up; his brow is creased in concentration. “Isn’t it?”

Will doesn’t answer. He’s uncomfortably aware of his resistance; of his desire to stand, and fidget around the room. Like he used to in therapy.

Just like in therapy, Hannibal fills in the gap. “St Michael is a warrior – he is usually depicted dressed for battle. Defender of the church, defeater of Satan, and the Christian angel of death. When he slays the serpent, angered by his defiance, he asks of him, ‘Who is like God?’”

“A sarcastic angel,” Will says, then sighs. “I don’t believe in God, Hannibal. Or the Devil.”

The charcoal continues to scratch over the paper without pause. Will gets to his feet to see the subject of their conversation with his own eyes. Hannibal stops, pulling back his hand so Will has a clear view.

Will frowns and leans closer. He had expected himself, glorious in angelic armour. Instead, it is his dream. His face is closed in thought, eyes cast down and to the side. A pair of spreading wings, heavy and full of strength, sweep out around him.

“How faithful do you find it?” Hannibal asks.

His limbs and hands are unfinished, only loose descriptive lines. Hannibal has favoured depicting his expression, his dark feathered wings and the shadows they cast behind him. It is uncanny.

The charcoal hovers over the rendering of his wings. Will grabs Hannibal’s wrist and holds him still.

“Don’t,” Will says. “It’s perfect the way it is.”

*

The feel of living feathers under his palm, against his cheek, is familiar now. He finds their soft warmth comforting. One flutters gently down to the ground; in its place, a new one will already be growing.

He watches it fall, and notices the dirt on his feet seems denser, darker. There are smears of it across his chest, down his stomach, too. And his hands… they are blackened entirely.

He brings them to his face - the light is poor. As soon as he notices, it is like a blind has rolled up. A square of sunlight floods the room. He sees then his hands have been dipped in soot. It glitters in the light, when he flexes his fingers.

From outside, beyond the window, is a noise like someone rubbing charcoal over paper.

*

In the garden is a hammock, swinging gently in the shade. Will reads there, his focus lazily split between the words on the page and the heat pressing onto his skin. He never thought he’d be able to stomach living this way, in what other people would call ease.

From across the lawn, he keeps an eye on the feeders and their visitors. Small round birds this time, brightly-coloured but nervous. They flutter away as a door from the house opens, and Hannibal steps onto the terrace.

He carries two glasses, his stride unhurried as he makes his way along the little cobbled path to the hammock. Will sits up to receive the glass of chilled wine he has been brought. Hannibal smiles at him in a satisfied manner, then sweeps off his hat and takes the garden seat beside Will.

“You have the air of a man who’s had a successful hunt,” says Will.

“Two perfectly-aged sides of beef procured, and also a case of an interesting Bordeaux.”

“Congratulations,” Will smiles. The local food markets do not always favour Hannibal’s tastes and expectations, and he takes a perverse pleasure in tracking down his needs. “So the family has accepted your invitation?”

“Yes, this morning. I dropped by again to check on her progress. The surgery is healing well, no signs of infection. The local doctor has taken good care of her.”

Will pictures the house in the village again; its picturesque facade, the girl inside on her sickbed. Their visit was the right thing to do, after Hannibal had saved her. It had been pure chance they had passed by just as her father carried her into the house, bloody and limp. An accident, her family had said, later. She’d been out walking along the cliffs and fallen. Nobody seemed inclined to explain why she had been walking where the rocks were so steep and slippery, and the drop so far beneath.

What sticks in Will’s mind now is way the family had greeted them the second time - with exaggerated respect, tainted with fear. He wonders how Hannibal’s visit today was received, really. If he will visit again.

“She reminds me of Gabriela,” Hannibal says.

Will gives him a warning glance. “Careful, Hannibal. Your hand is showing.”

He tilts his face toward Will. “I didn’t realise we were still engaged in a game. I thought we’d agreed no one could win?”

“Neither of us can, but that doesn’t mean play stops.” Will takes a sip from his glass, the wine crisp and grassy. “You never stop.”

“Do you think Gabriela regrets your intervention, or rejoices in it?”

“I think it’s a lot more complicated than that. And I didn’t do it for her.”

Hannibal looks fondly at him. “I know,” he says, quiet and sincere.

*

“Your dreams,” Hannibal asks, one night. “Do they persist?”

They are in the kitchen; it is late. Their guests dined well and have left behind them the eerie emptiness of a room recently vacated. In the dining room, chairs are out of place, glasses are dotted across the table. A stray fork lays abandoned on the wrinkled tablecloth. By the sink, piles of dirtied dishes await their attention.

The atmosphere had been cordial; the family more restrained than might be considered typical, after the news of their daughter’s near-certain recovery. An uneasiness lingers over the room.

Will swills the wine dregs down the sink. His own glass is still full, patiently waiting on the kitchen table. He prefers to stay alert when they have company. “Yes. Now I dream you are drawing me. Creating me from charcoal dust.”

Hannibal closes the dishwasher and dries his hands on a towel. “I didn’t give you your wings.”

“No, you didn’t,” Will says, turning away for his glass. “It’s just a dream. It’s not real.”

Hannibal is silent, stilled in thought, but only for the blink of an eye. Then he moves with decisiveness, towards Will. “Would you let me try something?”

Will nods, shrugs. “Why not.”

He follows a pace behind Hannibal, into the living room. The blinds and shutters are still open; a version of themselves is reflected in every pane of glass. Outside, the night is as black as pitch.

He lets Hannibal position him in the centre of the room, arms loose by his sides. Hannibal stands behind him, the warmth of his hands seeping through Will’s shirt.

“Show me your wings,” Hannibal says; a low voice close to his ear. 

Will snorts with laughter, but shuts his eyes tightly anyway, lacing his fingers through Hannibal’s at his shoulders.

Behind closed lids, his dream springs up around them. Except it is not quite his dream. The dusty floor is now the tile of the Cappella Palatina, the grinning, pleading skeleton below their feet. The bare walls of his dream room remain but columns soar upwards in processional rows. In front of them is the main altar, and above it a square window filled with searing tropical sun.

Slowly, Will becomes conscious of his wings. They are always there, he reminds himself; inert but powerful. With Hannibal behind him, their size impresses on him anew. He takes a breath, then stretches them out; puts them on display.

Hannibal, of course, does not hold back. He reaches straight for the soft, tender place they join his body. Will shivers; Hannibal's fingers slide through the smoke-grey down between his shoulderblades, to brush the skin beneath. Then up and out, along their upper edge, and over the longest and biggest primary feathers. Right to the tip; gentle, worshipful.

“Beautiful,” Hannibal whispers. “You are so beautiful.”

*

The last time Will had dreamed of Hannibal had been in Cuba, in their house in Punta Brava. Over and over, the same dream. There had been no blood, no spectre of death. Only Hannibal climbing out of the van, shrugging off his restraints and his mask; scenting the fresh air like it was the first rose of summer.

Out of all the moments possible, Will knew why his mind revisited that one in particular. He’d tried to avoid it, spending hours messing around on his boat or walking the beaches alone. There it had been easier to believe that the sublime intensity of tearing into skin and flesh and sinew was explainable by sustained fear and adrenaline. The actions of a man fighting for his life and wounded by the loss of his family; another moment in a long string of catastrophic upheavals.

But the truth had confronted him almost every night; a vision of Hannibal freed was also a vision of himself. In his dream, his heart soared, dangerously tight with longing. Both of them had been uncaged and anything was now possible.

He no longer dreams of Hannibal, tilting his face to the sky, rapturous with relief. Not since Gabriela’s father had found them.

*

Around the bay from the village, under the cliff, is Will’s favoured fishing spot. Sometimes he has company - one of the men from the village, with a battered bait box and a cooler of beer. They nod and keep a respectful distance. Men who fish like this seek the solace of the sea, not each other.

The waters are deep in this region; the mountains plunge down, far under the surface. Will perches on the rocks bordering the shore and casts his line out in a graceful arc. Below him, the waves roll and heave with eloquent might; a chilly, fathomless blue. 

In Cuba, he’d had a boat - _Stella Maris_ , she had been called. A lovely vessel, well-crafted. He still regrets the necessity of leaving her behind. 

Will had expected faded colonial grandeur from the safe house Hannibal said waited for them. But it had been almost rustic, tucked into the outskirts of Havana - a modest farmhouse, worn and lived in. Living there had been good. He’d spent many weeks absorbed in fixing it up, once he was well enough. He hadn’t needed Hannibal’s confession to know it had been chosen for him. 

They had met Gabriela on one of her rare shifts in the local bakery. Later she had explained her father needed her to keep house, since her mother died. Will had liked her; they both had. She was cheerful, friendly and quick, and had enjoyed letting Will practise his terrible Spanish on her. For someone so young, her corrections were swift and self-assured; she would have made an excellent teacher. 

Gabriela spoke little of her father but the tremor in her voice when she did was impossible to miss. Will found out from Rita, who owned the bakery, he was a police officer called Mateo. Without meaning to, she told him far more than that.

One morning, Mateo turned up on their doorstep. Will had invited him in, thoughts swimming with international arrest warrants and SWAT teams hiding in the bushes. Instead, Mateo had been full of sly insinuations about his daughter befriending two rich male tourists. There followed a heavy suggestion they owed him money for the privilege. On being told to leave, Mateo brought out his threats. He knew people, he had said, important people. He could get them investigated for anything he cared to name. Drugs. Sex with minors. Trafficking. Even if it didn’t stick, it could ruin their lives forever. Will had almost laughed at him.

He casts out his line again. How lucky Mateo had been that Hannibal had been out that day. What followed next could have been so much worse for him.

Will had pretended to have a change of heart and they had gone into the kitchen to negotiate terms. When Mateo had helped himself to a beer from their fridge, Will had driven a knife in deep under his ribs and slashed it out across his stomach. Mateo hadn’t struggled much - shock seemed to paralyse him even before he realised the extent of his injuries. Will had simply watched him slide to the floor, staring in disbelief at his own dark blood steadily pooling around him. He was dead in thirty seconds.

It had been impulsive, a split-second decision, but maybe inevitable. Will had been waiting and wondering when it would happen; when finally he would be drawn back round to where he’d begun. Spattered with blood in a kitchen, eyes wide, flooded with consequences. He had stood over the body for a while, pleased to find he still had the space to feel shocked at himself. 

Though Hannibal must have been sorry to have missed it, he never said so. He cooked for them both that night - a last meal before they had to disappear again - and watched Will eat, eyes dark with love.

By the time Will packs away his fishing gear and begins his walk home, the earth has started to turn its face from the sun. When he arrives back, the house is silent, except for the continual chirp of cicadas outside. Hannibal is here though, his hat and shoes are all accounted for. He will be taking his usual shower before dinner, in the large bathroom upstairs.

There is a gift for him, on the kitchen table. The drawing of himself, winged and strong and shadowy. Mounted and framed; Hannibal’s signature at the bottom. Will hangs it in his room, the black feather he found tucked under the glass.

*

“In the next place we live, let it just be us. I don’t want to see anyone else. Not for a while.” Will stares out into the darkness. Beyond the trees, the lights of the village are visible, and much further round the coast, a beacon blinks.

Earlier, Hannibal had come back downstairs, to begin with dinner. Will had watched him chop and slice from his seat by the window. His shower had left behind touchingly human traces; the damp pink vulnerability of bathing clung to his skin regardless of what lurked inside. Will had granted him a wide warm smile, and they’d eaten as evening descended, settling over the house like mist.

In the window, Hannibal’s reflection folds his book closed. “You sound sure we will be moving on soon.”

Will turns to look at him, hands in his pockets. “Won’t we?”

“Our fates are not yet sealed.” Hannibal stands, and strolls over to Will’s side.

The beacon continues flashing its warning. Will doesn’t know what it warns of. There is a bank of rocks hidden under the surface, perhaps.

“It was sealed the moment they accepted your invitation,” Will says. “They have eaten at the Devil’s table. Now they must act, no matter what bargain you have struck with them by saving their daughter.”

Hannibal’s lips quirk. “I thought you didn’t believe, Will.”

“They do.” 

Looking out into the dark night, Hannibal displays the benevolent disinterest of a god surveying his kingdom. He doesn’t care if he does good or ill; he only does it because it’s his to do.

“Her family watched you cut her open and restart her heart on the dining room table. They’ve seen the surgical kit you keep in the car. Your true face has been glimpsed,” Will says. “Soon there will be a knock on our door, and I don’t know if it will be an officer of the law or a priest.”

“There is no evidence. There’s nothing for them to find.”

“Doesn’t need to be. All they need to do is glance over the fugitive lists.”

Hannibal shifts closer, brushing his arm against Will’s. “You don’t want to leave,” he says.

“I want a place for us,” Will says. “It hasn’t taken the people here long to perceive you are not what you make out. You can stay hidden for longer in cities, urban places. Where people are preoccupied and distracted. Where everyone wears a mask.” 

“What do they perceive when they look at you?”

Will sighs. “Someone who doesn’t live in ignorance of what you are.” 

“I think they are more afraid of you, than they are of me,” Hannibal says. He looks proud, adoring. “What kind of man must they think you, to consort with me?”

Will doesn’t answer. The truth is too obvious to need speaking of.

“You cannot hide now,” Hannibal says, “anymore than I can.”

*

Hannibal invades his dreams again. At first, he is just a presence, fingers pushed deep into his feathers, breath warm against Will’s cheek.

Then he is a pair of hands at Will’s waist, slick with fresh blood. Will doesn’t know who it belongs to; it is not theirs.

Later still, he appears by Will’s side. Hair shorter, his sweater sodden and sticky. He reaches for Will; panting, exhausted, stricken with wonder. Will closes his eyes and when he opens them again, the bluff materialises around them. The moonlight, the breeze. There is black wet blood, streaming across the ground like a river.

Hannibal is his. This is either their end or their beginning, and Will does not want to choose which. Perhaps it is both. He folds his wings around him, as they clutch each other.

There is a dead man at their feet, his leathery wings ragged and torn. “Who is like God?” Will demands of him, and holds Hannibal closer.

*

As usual, Hannibal has cooked. Each plate is even more exquisite than Will remembers. A votive offering, every time Will sits down to eat.

Their necessities are packed, already loaded into the car. No matter how much Hannibal enjoys collecting things of beauty, he does not mourn leaving them behind. There are always more to be found; potential for beauty is everywhere. Once, Will thought he had been no exception. Once, Hannibal had thought the same. They both know better now.

The dining table is at its fullest splendour; laden with crystal and candles and china. The dishes Hannibal serves are elegant but lustrous and dark. His sense of humour has extended to creating a centrepiece from raven’s feathers and a sword-like paperknife. Will gives it the affectionate grimace it deserves, but feels secret pleasure well up at the sight anyway.

“I dreamed of you last night,” Will says. “I used to dream of you constantly. Before.”

“We’ve been happening to each other for a very long time,” Hannibal says, inclining his glass in a little toast to Will. Or, possibly, to them both.

“When I was on the Ripper case, I dreamed of a Wendigo,” Will says. “An evil spirit of never-ending hunger. I saw the Wendigo before I saw you.” He pauses, finishes his last careful bite, and sets his knife and fork aside. “Now there’s only you.”

“A man, not a myth.” Hannibal sits back contentedly to consider this image of himself. Will has never before met anyone so gratified by being the subject of his parlour trick. The things Will intuits always delight him. 

“In my dream, I was protective of you,” Will says. “Of us.”

“You will always take care of what is yours,” Hannibal says. “It is a quality I particularly admire in you.”

Will’s fingers tighten around his glass, lost as to how Hannibal can sound so casual. It is something they cannot be, not with each other. “We never talk about love,” he says, wanting to push at edges they have grown comfortable with. “But it colours everything that we do. Drives it.”

“Turns a myth back into a man,” agrees Hannibal.

“And a man into a myth,” smiles Will.

“Your wings are no more mythical than you are,” Hannibal says. “They are the hidden part of you, finding acceptance.”

“All of us crave a place to belong.” He looks round the table, at the places set in expectation of guests. No invitations have been issued this time but news of their impending departure will have spread. They might come; they might not. “Finding it can take us unawares.”

“We could simply leave,” Hannibal says. “Vanish overnight, nothing more. They would be content if we were to become someone else’s problem. They might file a report, and then move on.”

“Would you be content?” Will asks, finding as he speaks that he is genuinely curious.

Hannibal doesn’t seem sure, either. Before he answers, he gazes out the myriad windows, at the dark forest bordering the garden. “Your place is out there, with the wild things,” he says eventually. “I don’t want to see you put yourself back in a cage.”

“Captivity of any kind is something I want to avoid.” Will is about to say more; to say that it has taken him long years to understand he is not Hannibal’s captive and that it would be confinement of another kind now, to be alone.

Instead, the doorbell politely interrupts and together they turn towards the sound.

*

It is a dream but it is not a dream. Will has to remind himself of this, repeatedly. It is hard to prevent a sense of unreality bleeding in around the edges when he feels feathers soft across his shoulders, wings looming over his head.

Hannibal moved first, which Will had expected. Tonight was primarily Hannibal’s, and the honour was his. He had waited at the table, listening to voices in the entranceway and then moving into the kitchen. Hannibal kept his quiet and courteous while he made his assessment. When he acted upon it, Will had gone to join him.

The sense of peace makes everything seem dreamlike. He stands in the doorway while his mind runs over its well-worn crime scene tracks. The man had stood _here_ , the knife had entered _there_ and, before he had fallen, the man had tried to defend himself like _this_. The puddle of blood is smaller than he’s used to, so close to the time of death.

“He is alive, still,” Hannibal says, rinsing his hands at the sink. Will realises he has been speaking aloud.

Hannibal faces him, re-fastening his cuffs. He bears no signs of a struggle, except for the few strands of hair which have come loose and fall into his eyes.

“This is for you,” Hannibal says. “If you want it.” In his hand is a knife, the handle cradled in his palm. 

“If I don’t?” Will asks. “What then?” It is not really a challenge; Will just wants them both to know where they stand. Otherwise they are back in Hannibal’s kitchen, with a knife and a lack of clarity between them.

Hannibal looks at the knife, and back up at Will. “Then we leave as planned,” he says. “I can accept this is not your way. He would be already dead if you had been the one to initiate judgement. Angels slay, rather than torture.”

Will blinks at him, and then at the man on the floor. _Mid-thirties, 175lbs, stab wound to chest and abdomen._ It is unlike Hannibal’s usual style - it looks careless, though Will is certain the wounds were precisely dealt. The police would mistake it for a run-of-the-mill murder, unless they were looking for something more.

Will wants to give them something more.

His wings spread wide; underused muscles strain and his skin pricks with expectation. He holds out his hand for the knife.

*

They sit on the terrace, afterwards, on the steps leading down to the garden. It is a night lit by a dazzling moon and the forest is awake, teeming with sound and movement.

“They only sent one officer,” Will says. “If they know anything at all, it doesn’t extend further back than Cuba.” 

“Not for much longer, I imagine.” Hannibal shifts beside him. He has kept close to Will, since they left the kitchen. “Should the FBI ever see pictures of our dining room this evening that will most certainly change.”

“What did he tell you?” Will asks. “I heard you talking.”

“He wanted to know about my contact with her. The girl became upset and lashed out at home, clumsily. Her subsequent interview was of particular interest.”

“Which gave the police reason to act upon the family’s concerns about you,” says Will. “Shame they did not act upon her’s.”

Hannibal is silent, and Will joins him in gazing out at the trees. The darkness of the forest is not absolute, there are shades of it, shapes shifting with the breeze. Occasional eyes too, shining in the light from the house.

“What have they done with her?” Will asks. “Will she at least be safe?”

“She is in a psychiatric facility,” Hannibal says. He sounds disappointed. “In the hands of another therapist.”

Will sighs; he knows it’s not enough, he should’ve done more. He also knows Hannibal cannot be prevented from cultivating his interests. His influence in the world cannot be curtailed, not permanently. Only managed. Will does the best he can.

He stands and takes the steps down to the lawn where the feeders are. Hannibal follows. They walk in silence, the night air is richly scented. By the forest edge, Hannibal is a solid dark mass at his side, warm and alive.

“Tell me about the next house,” Will says. “The two of us, just for a while?”

“No one else,” Hannibal agrees. “No risks. Peace and quiet.”

Will wants to laugh; he feels almost giddy, like a teenager. Anything is possible, even peace and quiet. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He comes to a halt, under a huge swaying palm. Hannibal stops too; Will senses him peering into his face, as if even the darkness is not enough to prevent him from seeing what’s inside. 

They have both taken pains to preserve a leisurely space between them, Will thinks. But whatever has lain in wait there has already escaped, out into the wild night air. It is much too late: all Will can do is soar with it.

“I belong out here,” Will says, taking his hand. “With you. There’s nowhere else for us both to be.”

The pulse at Hannibal’s throat is almost audible. Will leans in. It is too dark to look into his eyes but he doesn’t need to see to know what he would find there.

“The next house,” Hannibal says, just before Will kisses him, “should have a forest close by, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! [You can find this fic post here on my tumblr](http://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com/post/168796558557/new-heaven-new-earth) \- reblogs are clutched to my heart like diamonds :)
> 
> [You can find theseavoices artwork here too](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13077594) \- if you enjoyed please go tell her :)
> 
>  ~~[Here I am on tumblr.](http://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com)~~ I’ve left tumblr due to their policy update of December 2018 and now you can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/weconqueratdawn), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/weconqueratdawn) and [dreamwidth](https://weconqueratdawn.dreamwidth.org/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [New Heaven, New Earth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13077594) by [TheSeaVoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSeaVoices/pseuds/TheSeaVoices)




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